


A Mouth So Soft And So Cold

by karotsamused



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: AU - Canon Divergence, Crack, M/M, Post-Series, Roy has MAGIC KISSES OKAY, but it got so OOC, canon spoilers, crack i tried to treat seriously, i don't think i can finish this but if someone else wants it have fun, mention of past Ed/GreedLing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6047716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karotsamused/pseuds/karotsamused
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al's first kiss comes from General Mustang.</p>
<p>Ed's most decidedly does not.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, over the course of one evening the General kisses them both. None of them is particularly happy about it either.</p>
<p>(Or: Roy has "magical" kisses. Was supposed to be an exploration of a human transmutation AU and turned so OOC. SO OOC orz)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mouth So Soft And So Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, help me.
> 
> Thank you, dearest Bean, for keeping this from getting out of hand.
> 
> I'm posting it anyway to get it out of my WIP folder and out of my head!

A quiet moment, just the tiniest hesitation.  
  
Then, Al takes a breath to steel himself and nods. “I accept with gratitude, General.”  
  
The General’s expression doesn’t shift. Impassive, he says, “Don’t move.”  
  
Al tips his chin up and closes his eyes. It’s reflex, something he’d read about in books and never experienced for himself.   
  
His first thought, as the General’s mouth just barely presses against his own, is that kisses are so very warm.

* * *

  
  
It’s the Elrics’ first visit to East City as civilians. Al’s idea, as so many things are, is to visit their allies as friends, roughly fourteen months after the Promised Day. They studiously avoided the anniversary.  
  
After having been cooped up in the house in Risembool for months, Al is desperate to travel. The ordeal of learning his body left Al shivering and frustrated, unable to sleep some nights because his skin was too sensitive to wrap over his frame. He’d fought to hold a fork, a pen. He’d fought to brush his own teeth and hair. On the worst days, his solace had been a tub of water just as warm as his body, floating as carefully as possible so his skin didn’t break the surface except at his neck. And his reward for finally being able to stand being swaddled in bedsheets was then to be bedridden by relentless fevers as his body caught up with all of the illnesses it had missed out on.  
  
Now, though, Al is well recovered. Slowly, he’s filling out, starting to look more and more his age. Ed thinks he’s beautiful; he’s told Al as much, whenever Al laments the speed of his recovery, or lack thereof. Winry says Al’s coming along well, and that she likes the expressiveness in his eyes.  
  
Sometimes, Al wonders when he’ll be able to look in a mirror and not expect, first, to see grey.  
  
Now, however, Al has people to visit in East City, his brother following along and fussing with every step. Ed is still in that stage of protectiveness that means Al gets an earful if he does anything that might remotely bruise.   
  
That doesn’t mean they haven’t been talking. Planning.  
  
In fact, part of the reason for their visit is for Al alone. Not to show himself to their friends and allies, though he’s thrilled to finally be able to see them again. (He’s hoping, though he’s grown like a weed, that perhaps one of the Lieutenants, or maybe the Sergeant, could be persuaded to ruffle his hair.)  
  
No, he’s coming to ask after a resource, one he’d noticed the General’s subordinates using far too late in their acquaintance. Over the phone, as any good military group with a coup on the horizon, they had a variety of codes and callsigns to obscure their meanings. But in person, sometimes, in whispers and in notes, Al had heard whispered syllables he couldn’t understand. It clicked for him when he heard Ling and Mei speaking to each other before they left. Team Mustang uses Xingese.  
  
Al, still in possession of his alchemy and with a burning desire to learn more about alkahestry, wants to go to Xing. Knowing the language ahead of time would be extremely helpful, and he wants to study. While he doesn’t mean to insult any of the General’s team, he can’t help but wonder how all of them, from such varied backgrounds, can speak Xingese in service to their country. As isolationist as Amestris was under the previous Fuhrer, it seemed impossible that they’d learned as a condition of enlisting, which meant the source was most likely the common thread: the General.  
  
Meeting the General is, however, almost impossible. Not only is he tremendously busy with his new responsibilities, chief among them being repairing relations with Ishval, but Al seems to be swarmed wherever he goes. Those who never knew the truth congratulate him for finally coming out of his shell, so to speak. Al laughs every time because they touch his back or his hands and it makes him unbearably happy. Those who knew him, really knew him, are gentler with him. They speak more softly, are more tentative, asking his permission to touch him.  
  
Havoc and Breda both ruffle his head, one after another. Ed stands a few feet away, puffed up as proud as a rooster at dawn. Hawkeye holds one of his hands in both of hers. Al’s hands are soft with disuse, and hers are rough in comparison. Al loves it anyway, because his hands will harden with time and for now she makes him feel like a kid.  
  
The General, however, is elusive. He’s at meeting after meeting, though Hawkeye tells them to stick around and wait. Al agrees readily. Ed, indulgent, just sits down next to him. Al endures Ed’s continued fussing while they wait; Ed asks whether he’s comfortable, if he’s tired, if he’s thirsty.  
  
The General’s staff give up on productivity. Al and Ed are surrounded, told stories, asked questions. Ed asks questions of his own, fielding a lot of the queries that might otherwise have been meant for Al. Still, Al is a little grateful for Ed’s protectiveness, because he is tired, more tired than he’d like to admit. One day, he’ll be able to handle travel and people and conversation again without wanting to take a nap.   
  
Havoc leaves at one point, and returns with Rebecca and dinner together. Al didn’t know her well before, but she’s got Havoc around her finger and she’s funny, and she hands him a paper-wrapped sandwich that smells like onions and heaven. Beside him, Ed digs in with vigor. On his other side, Black Hayate feigns disinterest while curled up beside him.  
  
He’d never thought of it before today, but Den’s coat is softer than Black Hayate’s. Black Hayate is muscular but fine-boned, and even his paw in Al’s hand feels refined. His ears, though, smell just like Den’s. It’s comforting, bizarrely.  
  
Ed is used to the smells here. But for Al it’s new, the ink and paper and stale coffee. Havoc’s cigarettes, Breda’s cologne, Rebecca’s perfume. The smell of wool uniforms. Boot polish. Floor wax.  
  
The General opens the door just as Ed is laughing so hard he has to cover his mouth with his hand to keep his food in.  
  
Al can’t help it. He shoots up. “General!”  
  
The last time he saw the General’s face, his eyes were milky and unseeing. Now, though, they sweep his form, sharp and gray as blades.  
  
And he smiles. “Alphonse. Edward. What a surprise.”  
  
Ed coughs, chewing feverishly. Al just steps around him and bows. “I’m sorry if we were interrupting something important. We just came to visit.”  
  
The General’s smile broadens. “Distracting my men, Elric? I’m not surprised.” He only has to look down a few inches. Still, it’s odd for Al to be looking up at him. The General says, “The damage is already done, isn’t it? You’ve gotten what you wanted.”  
  
Breda thumps Ed hard on the back. Ed coughs again, and swallows. “Good to see you, too, asshole!”  
  
Al flushes. His skin is still so pale, and gives him away so much more easily than his armor. “Brother! It — it really _is_ nice to see you, sir. I hope you’ve been well.”  
  
“I have,” says the General.  
  
“We got your usual, sir,” says Havoc, holding up a sandwich wrapped in white paper.  
  
“Ah,” says Al, as the General says, “Thank you,” and steps around him to accept it.   
  
“If you’ll excuse me, Alphonse. Edward. I have some more work to catch up on. Feel free to stay as late as you’d like,” says the General, retreating with his food.  
  
Ed frowns, but raises his hand in a wave. He hadn’t risen.  
  
Al, still on his feet, shifts from foot to foot. Surely, the General might have a few minutes for him. With one glance back at his brother, he says, “Be right back.”  
  
He follows the General into his office.   
  
Already, the General is at his desk, dwarfed behind papers. His sandwich, untouched, rests on the desktop.  
  
The General lifts his head. “Yes?”  
  
Al can’t hear any annoyance in his tone. So he shifts, and shuts the General’s door. “If you have a moment, I’d like to ask for your help.”  
  
Immediately, the General’s brows draw down. “What’s happened.” It’s not a question.  
  
Al holds his hands up. “Nothing, nothing’s happened. But. But I’m planning to go to Xing and I — am wondering if you know some way to help me learn it quickly. Because you and your men — everyone knows how to speak Xingese, except Brother, it seems.”  
  
Some of the foreboding lifts from the General’s expression, but he doesn’t speak for a long moment. Al begins to wish for at least some of the qualities his armor afforded him, its impenetrability being chief among them. He fights the urge to fidget.  
  
“You aren’t going to visit Prince Yao or Princess Chang, or you wouldn’t be asking,” says the General quietly. “So. May I ask the reason you’re going to go?”  
  
Al swallows, putting words to the desire he and Ed whispered to one another on the nights Al couldn’t sleep. “There were — there _are_ people we’ve failed. And Brother and I want to do all we can. To. To figure out how to separate a chimera once it’s been created.”  
  
The General’s eyes widen. “Ah. And you think the answer might lie in alkahestry.”  
  
“Brother’s headed West. We’re going to go as far as we can for answers.” Al does his best to maintain eye contact. It’s more difficult, now. The General’s presence is like a physical pressure. “But I. Have more to gain by going East.”  
  
It hangs between them, sorrowful, unspoken. Ed is alchemically inert. There’s no point to his learning anything about alkahestry, not now.  
  
“Are you going under the protection of the Emperor?” asks the General.  
  
Al shakes his head. “I - I’d rather go as quietly as I can. If I’m allied with a particular clan, even if it’s the clan of the future Emperor, I lose forty-nine… forty-eight other groups. The Changs will talk to me because of Mei.”  
  
The General smiles, then. It’s a showing of his teeth, humorless and a little predatory. “You’re walking into a delicate situation, Alphonse. At the best of times, Xing is well within its rights to suspect Amestris of foul play. If you aren’t going as a friend of the Yaos, you’re an unaffiliated Amestrian. That’s dangerous.”  
  
Al swallows, squaring his shoulders. “I’m aware. But I’ve got to try.”  
  
The General steeples his fingers, then folds them down flat. “You’re observant and very smart, Alphonse. I’m sure you’ll find your way if you can hold on to your patience. We won’t be able to help you if you get yourself into trouble over there.”  
  
“I only came to ask if you knew someone who’d be willing to teach me the language. O-or if you knew of a book I should try,” says Al.  
  
The General stares him down for a long moment. Al feels a bead of sweat form at the back of his neck, then slowly creep its way down between his shoulders and catch at his spine.   
  
“The clans are nearly identical, ethnically, but each one has its own peculiarities of dialect. Even native speakers aren’t often able to move seamlessly between them for that reason. The Xingese that my men and I use is pidgin, including some abbreviations we’ve adapted for military use.”   
  
Al’s shoulders sag.  
  
The General continues, “However. If I were to recommend a tutor, you’d be saddled with the tutor’s dialect, and an inadvertent alliance to the tutor’s clan.”  
  
Al’s head droops.  
  
The General rubs his face with both of his hands. “However. Barring all of that, I do have something of a solution to your problem. Multi-dialectical fluency, and a way to rid you of an Amestrian accent, which is, at best, considered gauche.”  
  
“How?” asks Al, immediately straightening. “And how do you know all of this?”  
  
The General rises out of his seat, coming around his desk to stand in front of Alphonse. “You may find this unbelievable. Certainly I did when it first occurred, and despite my best efforts I’ve never found a cause nor a reason. But I am, in a way, the most powerful and comprehensive Xingese teacher you could ever meet. Despite having never set foot in the country myself.”  
  
Al can’t help but light up, his chest swelling with excitement. “You, sir? You must have taught all of your men! Please, teach me. Please.”  
  
It’s almost as though Al has said the wrong thing, the way the General’s expression hardens. “You can’t tell a soul, Alphonse. Not my subordinates, not your brother, not anyone. Swear it.”  
  
“But why?” asks Al. “If you taught your men— “  
  
“Swear it,” repeats the General. His teeth are bared, now, his eyes flinty, his posture impeccable. He looks every bit the commanding officer he is, vicious and hard.   
  
Drawing on his strength, Al repeats himself. “Why?”  
  
“Decide whether or not you trust me, without knowing why. Without your silence, this ends here.”  
  
Al thinks only for a moment about it. After everything, his only answer is, “I swear.”  
  
The General’s shoulders drop, but it’s clearly not with relief. “The knowledge is transferred through physical contact. With your consent, I’ll kiss you.”  
  
Stunned, Al can only gape.  
  
The General says, “I don’t know how it works. I only know _that_ it works. And yes, every single person on my staff that speaks Xingese learned it from me, and _yes_ , this is exactly the reason why your brother doesn’t know, and _yes_ , I am fully aware of how imbecilic it sounds, but if it ensures a safer passage through Xing then I will do it.”  
  
Al swallows. It’s as though his mind has stuttered to a stop, unable to process the information it’s being fed. The General has the ability to make someone fluent in Xingese with a kiss. The General has kissed _every one of his subordinates_ to use this language as code. The General found this out, somehow, and has been unable to figure out just why it happens. The General never kissed his brother, but the General will kiss him.  
  
The General, whose face is hard and cold. The General, who says, “You have one minute to decide, Alphonse.”  
  
A quiet moment, just the tiniest hesitation.  
  
Then, Al takes a breath to steel himself and nods. “I accept with gratitude, General.”  
  
The General’s expression doesn’t shift. Impassive, he says, “Don’t move.”  
  
Al tips his chin up and closes his eyes. It’s reflex, something he’d read about in books and never experienced for himself.   
  
His first thought, as the General’s mouth just barely presses against his own, is that kisses are so very warm.  
  
His second thought, as the General pulls away from him and his eyes open of their own accord, is that it wasn’t romantic in the slightest. The General could have given him a handshake, for all the passion he’d displayed.  
  
His third thought is to try it.  
  
In perfect, formal Xingese, Al says, “ _Thank you, General._ ” And then, delighted, he laughs. He can’t help it. “ _I don’t understand how that worked, but this is undeniable._ ”  
  
In Xingese, the General says, “ _Don’t refer to yourself so humbly. It comes off as insincere._ ”  
  
Al wrinkles his nose. Trying a different pronoun, he says, “ _If I may ask, what happens if you kiss a person a second time?_ ”  
  
“ _Are you suggesting you want another?_ ” asks the General, his voice dropping lower. There’s a threat in there, the most genteel of warnings that Al has gone too far.   
  
“ _Maybe? It’s not as though it hurt me,_ ” says Al, screwing his courage tight to his chest. There is absolutely no reason to tell the General that he’d just received his first kiss. Speaking Xingese is exhilarating, and the thrill of scientific inquiry has its hold on him. “ _If you’re unwilling, I won’t ask again._ ”  
  
The General lifts his chin. “ _I am unwilling._ ”  
  
Al chews his cheek. The thought occurs to him, and he is at once terrified of it and convinced of its necessity when he says, “ _And you are similarly unwilling to teach my brother._ ”  
  
“Alphonse,” says the General, warning more obvious in his tone.  
  
Al holds his hands up, placating. “It’s only that — _It’s only that I’d like to be able to send him texts without needing to translate them into Amestrian and code. It would save a step._ ”  
  
“ _It will be good practice for you both,_ ” the General hisses. “The matter is closed.”  
  
Knowing defeat when it stares him in the face, Al says, “Yes, sir. Thank you again, General. Excuse me.”  
  
He leaves, shutting the office door behind him. Ed asks what he wanted to talk to the bastard about, and Al realizes he doesn’t have an answer prepared.  
  
Hawkeye’s eyes narrow with understanding. She covers for Al. He’s sure of it, because whatever she says makes Ed laugh and the matter is dropped.  
  
For the rest of the evening, Al pretends he’s more exhausted than he actually is to avoid having to speak.  
  


* * *

  
  
Al should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it. True to form, as soon as they make it to their hotel room (having declined the offers of spare rooms from Breda and Fuery) Ed says, “Okay, no, really. What did you have to talk to the General about?”  
  
Al busies himself with pulling off his coat. “Oh, just. Things.”  
  
He’s aware the flush is creeping up his neck and to his cheeks the longer Ed stares at him.  
  
“Oh. Things. With the door closed.”  
  
“Yeah? We didn’t want to disturb the rest of you,” says Al, knowing it sounds lame even as he says it.  
  
“With what?” asks Ed. He grunts as he bends down to unlace his boots.  
  
Al shrugs. “Stuff. It’s nothing.”  
  
Ed’s head raises slowly. “What did he do to you.”  
  
Al jumps. “Nothing! Brother!”  
  
“I’m serious, Al, what did he do?” says Ed, his voice raising in volume.  
  
“Nothing. We just talked.”  
  
Ed presses on. “With the door closed.”  
  
“Yes, with the door closed.” Al can feel his cheeks burning now, hot as brands. His heart is racing; he’s never been good at lying, especially not with his face giving him away.  
  
“Al. What did you talk about?” asks Ed, his stormy expression growing darker.  
  
Al swallows. He knows Ed won’t let it go, and he can’t come up with a single plausible cover. He sits on the edge of his bed and says, “I promised I wouldn’t say.”  
  
Ed throws his hands up. “Are you kidding me? That’s so shifty! That’s - what did he _do_ to you?!” he bellows.  
  
Wincing, Al says, “Brother, shh! Listen, I went to ask him about learning Xingese.”  
  
“Why the hell would he know about Xingese stuff? He’s Amestrian, makes a big deal out of it,” says Ed, looking unconvinced.  
  
“He uses it as code! Brother, did you _never_ notice?!” cries Al, incredulous.  
  
Ed shakes his head. “He never has! The only time I ever heard Xingese was between Ling and Lan Fan.”  
  
Al sags a little. “So. So he never spoke it around you. Okay. That explains. A lot.” He shakes his head, then runs a hand through his hair. “Brother, he and his men use Xingese as code. I’ve heard them do it, so I wanted to ask him how he learned.”  
  
“With the door closed.”  
  
“ _Yes,_ with the door closed! Listen, Brother! I asked him about it and he said he had a way to teach me. Really, really quickly. But to do it he — you _really_ can’t tell anyone, Brother, he made me swear. To do it he had to kiss me.”  
  
Ed stares for a handful of heartbeats, not unlike a bomb counting down to detonation. True to form, he then explodes. “And you FELL for that?!”  
  
Al’s flush burns brighter. “Brother—“  
  
“No! No. Of all the bullshit — you _kissed_ him? Al, seriously? You - he’s like fifteen years older than you are and — was there something in your sandwich? Did he drug you?” cries Ed, stumbling as he laces himself back into his boots. He’s incandescent with rage, his face as red as Al’s.  
  
“Brother!” Al gets up, grabbing Ed by the arm. “It _worked,_ Brother, it worked. I can do it, now.”  
  
Ed’s wide eyes narrow as he straightens up. “Prove it, then.”  
  
In Xingese, Al says, “ _I knew you were going to freak out._ ”  
  
“You could be making that up!” accuses Ed.  
  
Al frowns. “I understood the General when he spoke it back to me!”  
  
That actually seems to give Ed pause. “Wait. You. You really speak Xingese. And you spoke it to him.”  
  
Al lets out a breath. “Yes. Yes, to all of it.”  
  
“Because he kissed you.”  
  
Al flushes wretchedly. “Yes. Neither of us enjoyed it very much, I think.”  
  
The breath leaves Ed in a rush. “You. He.”  
  
“Yeah,” agrees Al, more softly.  
  
Ed backs up a few paces, hitting the edge of the bed and sitting down hard. Al lets go of his arm, watches his brother think furiously. The furrows in Ed’s brow are deep in the yellow light of their room, and his jaw is set tight.  
  
Exhausted, Al sinks onto his own bed. He keeps an eye on his brother, but mostly tries to regain his bearings. He hopes their neighbors weren’t upset by the noise they made.  
  
“Wait! That bastard never kissed me! That’s not fair!” cries Ed, jolting Al out of his rest. “I need to know Xingese too, why the hell wouldn’t he let me in on the code?”   
  
Already, Ed is up and bolting for the door.   
  
“Brother! Where are you going?” Al calls, feeling his stomach sink.   
  
“To find him,” growls Ed.  
  
“But it’s late. He’s probably home by now,” says Al, trying to sound reasonable.  
  
Ed’s smile is all teeth. “Somebody knows where he lives.”  
  
Al scrambles to follow him, feeling his muscles whine in protest. Still, he catches Ed up by the time he hits the sidewalk. Al follows the sound of Ed muttering furiously to himself.  
  
“Brother,” says Al, quietly, trying to keep them from being noticed by other pedestrians. “Brother, this is a horrible idea.”  
  
“I won’t tell him you told me,” says Ed, his jaw set. “It’ll be fine.”  
  
Al groans to himself, but hurries to keep up. Ed’s stride has gotten longer as he’s grown, and Al’s legs are still in progress. Ed is speed walking, but as Al’s breaths grow more labored he slows down, until he’s stomping slowly up the steps to East HQ.  
  
Ed bares his teeth at front desk security and asks after the General. When they find out he’s still in, Al thinks of the mountain of paperwork on the General’s desk and begins to despair.  
  
“Brother, if he’s putting in a late night—“  
  
“I won’t be distracting him long,” says Ed, breezing down the halls like he owns them.  
  
When they get to the General’s office, Ed raps on the open door and pokes his head in with the same motion. Al follows, his shoulders hunched up around his ears.  
  
The General is still surrounded by paperwork, but at least the sandwich is open and half eaten beside him. There are no fewer than three cups of coffee in various stages of empty around him, and the sheaf of paper in his hands is as thick as Al’s wrist.  
  
“That took longer than I expected, Alphonse. Bravo,” deadpans the General.  
  
Al winces, trying to sink through the floor.  
  
Ed says, “Don’t blame him for your deviant behavior.” He crosses the room and leans on the General’s desk. “I want to know why I’m not good enough for you.”  
  
The General’s eyebrows raise, his face relaxing into the familiar, smug posture it takes when he jabs at Ed. “I never knew my opinion mattered so much, Edward. I’m touched.”  
  
Al wonders if Ed can hear how tired the General sounds.  
  
Ed snarls, “It matters when you’re laying one on my little brother!”  
  
“Laying one on?” asks the General, his smile broadening until it shows his teeth. His whole body is so relaxed, but his amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. “Al, what on earth did you tell him?”  
  
Before Al can answer, Ed cuts in. “You kissed him and you didn’t want me to know.”  
  
The smile disappears, as quickly as it came. With impenetrable calm, the General says, “Considering your reaction, you can’t really be surprised.”  
  
Ed fumes. “If it wasn’t something you had to hide, I wouldn’t be pissed.”  
  
Al can see it coming, tries to head him off by saying, “Brother, really, it wasn’t—“  
  
“If it’s really no big deal then prove it,” says Ed.  
  
The General stands, as graceful as a big cat and about as easy to read.  
  
“I will ask of you what I asked of your brother. Speak of this to no one.”  
  
It’s not a request. When it was directed at him, Al felt trepidation and excitement. Now, with the General’s attention aimed at his brother, Al can only feel foreboding.  
  
With bravado betrayed by the way his hands clench, Ed says, “I’m really not going to want to. They’ll lock me up for talking nonsense.”  
  
In the same tone he used with Al, the General says, “Don’t move.”  
  
Ed’s eyes stay open. So do the General’s. There is no tenderness in their brief press of lips, no affection. Al was hoping to perhaps see a spark or a flash, some visual cue that immense knowledge had been crammed into Ed’s brain. What he sees instead is the growing coldness on the General’s face as he pulls back.  
  
“Now. If you’ll excuse me,” he says, his voice low. The dismissal is as plain as if he’d held the door for them.  
  
Ed is mute, dumbstruck. Al wonders if he looked that stupid when the General kissed him. It’s really pretty embarrassing. Al grabs Ed’s arm and hauls him out of the room, stammering apology after apology, not stopping until they’re in the hall.  
  
Over his shoulder, the last he sees of the General is a solitary figure in the middle of a bare office, empty of expression, hands loose at his sides. The image is stark. It feels final.  
  
Once in the hall, Ed says, “Uh.”  
  
Al says, “I know, Brother, I know,” and drags him back to the hotel.  
  


* * *

  
  
Al wakes up with the clicking of the hotel door lock.  
  
It’s dark, and his brother is gone.  
  
He scrambles out of bed to get the lights on. He finds a note on Ed’s bed, in precise, blocky Xingese.  
  
 _Going to get breakfast. Back soon._  
  
It’s five in the morning.  
  
Al wants to follow him, but he can only guess at where Ed’s gone.  
  
Stomach twisting, Al lowers himself back into bed. He’ll have to trust his brother.  
  


* * *

  
  
Ed hadn’t said much, between.  
  
Between the time the General kissed him and the time Al heard him sneak out, Ed was quiet. Contemplative, even, inasmuch as the word could apply.   
  
If anything, he frowned at the middle distance like it had done him some great disservice. Or had, perhaps, insulted something important to him.  
  
Compared to his earlier tantrum, the quiet was unsettling. Al had expected his brother to explode again, to scream or overreact, not to lapse into quiet. Not to tuck himself into bed and breathe, even and slow.  
  
If he hadn’t been so drained, Al might have said something.  
  
Now he waits, in the yellow glow of morning, for his brother to return with breakfast. It’s only an hour or so past dawn, but Al has grown into the rhythms of the farm. Even without being disturbed he tends to wake up before the sun.  
  
Al sits in bed, his brother’s note held between his hands. Here, in the quiet, the insanity of the last twelve hours sinks in. He, Alphonse Elric, can speak and read in Xingese. Apparently regardless of dialectical distinction, and both formally and casually. If he thinks about it, he can call up the characters needed to write a letter, a note, a law. And yet, this knowledge is instinctual; he couldn’t explain the culture that birthed it to save his own life. The General gave him an odd gift, a dangerous gift. False competence.   
  
And, what’s more, to get them off of his back, the General gave it to _Ed._  
  
Al isn’t an idiot. He’s aware that Ed made a friend of Ling Yao just as much as Al grew close to Mei Chang. It will be nice, maybe, for Ed to write letters in Ling’s language. At least, it would cut Ling’s “I don’t understand this strange foreign language” excuses off at the pass.   
  
But Al isn’t an idiot. He’s _also_ aware that Ed spent far longer than Al likes to think of being a possession of the homunculus Greed as it resided in Ling Yao. And though Greed came around to their side in the end, it must have taken some convincing from Ling and Ed both. Persistence, stubbornness, two qualities Ed has in abundance.  
  
This occurs to him as an afterthought. Its salience is not readily apparent.  
  
Ed comes back midmorning with steaming coffee and fresh sweetbread. His hair is tied back high and tight, his collar buttoned at the base of his neck.  
  
“Good morning, Brother,” says Al.  
  
Ed grins at him. “Yo. One of these is apple and the other is cheese.”   
  
“Apple,” Al says, accepting the bun from Ed. He watches his brother sink gently onto the opposite bed and sip his coffee.   
  
The bun is sweet and hot, the apples crisp. Al sighs around the first mouthful.  
  
He chews. Swallows. Says, “Was there a long line? You’ve been gone for hours.”  
  
Ed’s cheeks turn pink. “Oh. I, uh. Wasn’t paying attention, and ended up at the bakery before it opened.”  
  
Al watches him, the way Ed isn’t squirming, exactly, but is tremendously interested in his coffee. “Well, I guess these were really worth it, huh?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Ed, his voice and smile soft.   
  
Choosing to fill his mouth rather than speak, defensively, Al takes a huge bite. A slice of apple escapes and lands on his shirt.  
  
“Augh.”  
  
He stuffs the slice into his cheek and tries to suck the sugar out of his shirt.  
  
Ed laughs. “Geez, if you’re that hungry you can have mine, too.”  
  
“Hgrmnth, bthr,” mumbles Al around a mouthful of shirt and apple and bread.  
  
Ed fusses with a cup of cold water from the bathroom, helping Al get rid of the stain before it sets. As Ed scrubs at Al’s shirt, Al looks up and sighs. “Okay, Brother, really. Where were you.”  
  
Ed scrubs harder. “Just transmute it, Al. I think I’m making it worse.”  
  
“Don’t ignore me!” says Al, clapping his hands together with more force than is strictly necessary. He presses his fingertips to his chest so swiftly that Ed has to jump back.  
  
Ed scratches at the back of his neck. “Okay, so I needed some time to think.”  
  
“Think,” echoes Al. “At five in the morning.”  
  
“You—“ Ed sputters, before deflating. “Yes, think. Come on, that was some Grade-A bullshit we went through yesterday and I was trying to make sense of it.”  
  
With no small amount of trepidation, Al asks, “Did you?”  
  
“No. But I know what I’m going to do about it.” Ed gestures dramatically, raising his hands outward, palm-up. “I’m going to the source. Mustang’s always holding out on us and it’s not any different now.”  
  
Al gapes, then forces himself to shut his mouth. “I am going to have no part of this, Brother. And I want you to know that I think it’s a terrible idea.”  
  
“Noted, but you’re wrong. I still promise I’ll tell you how the whole Xingese thing works even if you don’t come with me,” says Ed.  
  
“Brother. Really. Brother,” says Al.   
  
Ed crosses his arms. “Al. Really. It’s not _magic_ or some unexplainable phenomenon. It’s not an act of some imaginary God. Which means he’s _doing_ something.”  
  
“But it’s a kiss! He wouldn’t be kissing us unless he had to.” Silently, Al chalks that phrase down under _Things Never To Say Again._ He shakes his head. “You might have to concede that the issue is outside of his control.”  
  
“Not without evidence, empirically proven,” says Ed with a sniff.  
  
Al blinks. “Oh. So you just want to kiss him again?”  
  
It’s a low blow, a remnant of the threat the General had leveled at him when his own line of questioning had gone too far. But Ed reacts differently, coloring under his collar, turning very, very red.  
  
“If that’s what I have to do to get to the truth.” And, lower, like Al somehow can’t hear him if he mutters, “I’ve done worse.”  
  
Al claps his hands over his ears and cries, “I’m not listening!”  
  
Ed yells something that Al can’t make out, but it’s accompanied by a lot of arm-waving. Al closes his eyes and says, at normal volume, “We’re sharing walls with other people, Brother, keep it down!”  
  
Ed grabs Al’s wrists and pulls them down. Ed is still stronger, still very much stronger than he is. “If I’m gonna catch him before he gets to work, I’ve got to go now. Listen. It’ll be okay. I’ll be back soon.”  
  
“I am _not_ helping you with this,” says Al.  
  
“Okay! Fine. But I’m going,” says Ed, lifting his chin. And, like that, Ed’s gone.  
  
Al stares at the closed door for a long moment, then puts his head in his hands. Oh, hell, he thinks. His brother wants to kiss the General and is going about it in the worst possible way. The Promised Day wasn’t the end of the world. It’s now, it’s coming now.  
  


* * *

  
  
Al is writing out the complete Xingese alphabet when Ed returns. He’s already managed over four hundred and seventy characters and is still going strong. The strokes of his pen rise out of his hands like muscle memory from a life he hasn’t lived.  
  
Ed is quiet when he opens the door. His whole posture is loose, but his eyebrows are drawn sharply together.  
  
“Hello, Brother,” says Al. Frankly, he’s a little relieved that Ed doesn’t appear to have any burns.  
  
“Huh? Oh. Hey,” Ed responds. His voice is quiet and far away.  
  
Al sits up better, twirling his pen between his fingers. “What did the General say?”  
  
“Oh. He kicked me out,” says Ed. He rubs his palm over his jaw and neck. “So I didn’t get an answer.”  
  
There isn’t defeat in the set of his shoulders. Ed doesn’t hold himself like he does when he’s denied the answer to a great mystery. Instead, confirming Al’s fears, he looks not unlike a scolded dog. Normally, at this point, a wrench would be flying at Ed’s head, but it’s not Winry now that he’s disappointed.  
  
So Ed went to talk to the General and, in true Ed fashion, royally fucked things up.  
  
Al sighs, going back to his alphabet. “I guess you’re going to have to let it go.”  
  
“Mm,” says Ed, docile agreement. It’s jarring enough that Al glances up again. Ed just sinks down onto the bed and lays back, frowning up at the ceiling.   
  
Al resumes writing. His hand moves gracefully, with delicate touches. Ink on paper. This character can be a house or a temple, depending on the order of strokes, but only for certain clans. In another clan’s dialect, it’s a deciduous tree. Al has no idea of context or history for any of it, but he knows the words in his bones.  
  
For the next hundred and seventeen characters, Ed doesn’t so much as move from his place on the bed.  
  
Al’s hand cramps; he takes a break to rub the feeling back into his fourth and fifth fingers. He takes pity on his brother.  
  
“So what did he say, then?”  
  
“What did who say?” mumbles Ed.  
  
Al sighs. “Brother.”  
  
“He just told me to get out. Point blank, no negotiation,” Ed says, his voice flat. “Slammed the door in my face.”  
  
“Ah,” says Al. “He must have been upset.”  
  
“I don’t get _why._ I can get it if maybe he doesn’t get what he’s doing, or how it really works. But the other things, like the experiments? He _knows_ what happens when he kisses someone twice and he just won’t tell me.” Ed grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes.  
  
Al chews his cheek. “What makes you so sure he’s done that?”  
  
Ed sits up. “Be serious. He’s dated half the typing pool and stolen all of Havoc’s girlfriends.”  
  
Al frowns. “It’s hard to make sense of that, yeah. But. But if he’d kissed them all then it would have gotten out. I mean, someone would have talked.”  
  
“I know that,” says Ed, irritation coloring his words. “He’d never.”  
  
“So you’re overthinking it.”  
  
Ed throws himself back onto the bed with a thump. “Or you aren’t thinking about it enough! Doesn’t it bother you?”  
  
Al huffs. “Not enough to upset the General over it!”  
  
Ed growls. “He kissed you. The door’s open.”  
  
“No, it’s not! Just because he kissed me - and you, too, Brother - does not mean we have to know exactly how it works.” Al frowns. “I mean, otherwise anyone who ever saw us do transmutations without a circle should get to know how we do it. Right?”  
  
Ed makes an inarticulate noise of frustration, kicking out his leg.  
  
Al sighs, but he can at least see capitulation on the horizon. That, or a great, long sulk. “Plus. Kissing is… it’s. It’s supposed to be special and it’s not, now. For him.”  
  
It’s the wrong thing to say, and Al realizes it when Ed’s head snaps up. “That was your first one, wasn’t it,” breathes Ed, and it’s not a question.  
  
Al feels heat creep up his neck. “Of course not. Because it wasn’t a real kiss. It was. It just wasn’t.”  
  
Ed drops his head back down. “Damn right it wasn’t,” he grumbles.   
  
“Shut up,” mumbles Al.  
  
Ed rakes his hands through his hair, stopping when his knuckles hit the bed. With his elbows up like that, he looks like an upended crab, squirming for purchase to flip back over. He mumbles to himself, uncomplimentary things about the General for the most part, until he runs out of steam. His elbows drop out to the sides.  
  
The end of Al’s pen tastes like ink, and he realizes he’s been chewing on it as he tries to come up with any more characters to write that aren’t compounds.   
  
Ah, oh yes, three strokes and he has the word for the sound rain makes on a hollow stone.  
  
“You ready to go home, Al?” asks Ed. His voice is quiet and distant.  
  
“I think that’s probably a good idea,” says Al. He isn’t sure which of them he is indulging more; both of them are familiar with bolting from awkward situations. If they were to visit HQ again, it would only bring them nearer the General’s office than either of them wants to be. They’ve been social enough, this time.  
  
Al puts his pen and papers away. From his brother, he’s learned how to pack efficiently, how to never really unpack in hotels, how never to really unpack even when he’s home. Each of them has a bag ready at all times, missing only the barest of essentials, in preparation for some crisis or journey yet unnamed.   
  
When he rises, Ed’s packed as well. They head to the train station without further discussion.  
  


* * *

  
  
It seems like it’s an Elric family tradition, writing letters. They started young, searching for their father. Now, it’s their tie to everyone they leave behind them. Al started first in a dogged attempt to improve his motor function. Letters to East, to Central, to Rush Valley, to Dublith. Letters to his father and mother, buried side-by-side.  
  
Now, Al writes as well to May. He uses purposefully amateurish Xingese, asks for her critique as much as he asks to know her. Those letters take the longest to receive a reply, but over months he’s allowing his writing to improve as he contacts her.  
  
Xing looms ahead of him, an adventure he can’t wait to embark upon in a body that isn’t yet strong enough to handle the trek. The chimera soldiers, laying in wait to travel with him, are more patient with him than he is with himself.   
  
He helps Ed around the house, all of the little repairs that could be fixed easily with alchemy and that Ed needs to learn to do for himself. Ed’s hands are stronger and steadier, his grip firmer. He has years of combat training to give him muscle, while Al’s body has the memory but not the strength. Al practices balancing on the roof while Ed reseats shingles. Al lets the sun bake his skin and turn it brown, though it’s never quite as brown as Ed’s. The both of them tend toward freckling, but the back of Ed’s neck is a stripe darker than most of Al’s spots.  
  
Winry has a surprisingly constant stream of clients coming through the house. Without Ed breaking his automail every other week or so, though, she has a lot more free time. She’s patient with him, offers to teach him how to cook. While his baking doesn’t quite come out like hers just yet, he’s getting better in the kitchen. It’s become common enough now to cry over onions that the feeling of elation has subsided into annoyance. He’s getting used to it. He’s getting back to normal.  
  
The little mistakes Al used to make, forgetting about the fragility of skin and bone, are mostly behind him now. Never does he try to shield the ones around him from heat or electricity, not even when Ed’s attempt at repairing the toaster nearly knocked him cold. Now, he’s down to cajoling Ed into sparring with him. He’ll never get stronger without pushing himself, but Ed is extremely reluctant to let Al damage the body he’s worked so hard to regain.  
  
Winry’s hands are not like Ed’s. No matter how much mechanical work she does, no matter how many calluses have sprung up on her fingertips, she does her best to keep her hands as soft as possible. Where the knuckles of Ed’s left hand are scarred and split, both of Winry’s are just as worn and twice as gentle. Maybe it’s the doctor in her, but whenever Al does manage to hurt himself, Ed panics and Winry is the one who patches him up.  
  
The firmest among them regarding Al’s physical therapy is Aunty, as unbending as she ever was. And so Al runs errands, walking with Den beside him, and sometimes Ed, when Winry needs quiet.  
  
As he does twice a week, this morning Al heads down to town to drop off his latest letters, and retrieve any that have come for him.  
  
The walk is long, but beautiful even in the heat of summer. He takes the time to think on the way down, and on the way back he knows he’ll read all of the letters addressed to him before he’s even made it to the house. Ed tells him one day he’s going to trip and knock his teeth out. Al tells Ed that he sounds like an overbearing mother hen. Ed doesn’t seem to care.  
  
As he walks, Al fantasizes about the day he knows is coming. The day when he’ll knock Ed flat on his back and stand over him, so Ed has to recognize that, at this point, they are each as breakable as the other. Al has no presumptions about his own preciousness.  
  
Den is some yards behind, padding along at a sedate pace. When he was younger, he often bounded off the path to follow rabbit trails or bump ungracefully into grazing sheep. Now, though, Den is more contented to oversee Al’s progress. He sticks closer once Al gets to town. It’s a familiar path to the post box, paying for postage at the counter. Den stays outside, sitting proudly on the porch, his tail curled around his feet.  
  
Among the letters Al picks up is one that is unusually thin, addressed to Ed. The return address is a street in East City, but there’s no name.  
  
Al, of course, doesn’t open it. He only digs through the mail addressed to himself. There’s a letter from Teacher. Or, well, from Mason, but he’d long accepted that Teacher tended to yell things at Mason for him to write down. There’s a letter from Paninya for Winry, oil-stained. And, dearest of all, a thick envelope from May, addressed in perfect Amestrian.  
  
He tears into May’s letter first, tucking the other envelopes under his arm. She’s well, and so is Xiao Mei. Ling has clearly established himself as the current Emperor’s favorite, and has extended his protection to the Changs. The general assumption is that, with this increase in stature, a representative from the Changs will be the first to produce the new generation of heirs. May, however, is aware that Ling thinks the system is asinine, primarily because it makes Lan Fan’s normal severity worsen whenever it comes up.  
  
She has no idea Al plans to come, and Al wants to keep it that way. He knows she can handle Xingese politics better than he can, but he’s unable, just yet, to give her a concrete timeframe. And the last thing he wants is for her to get impatient. Best that his weakness frustrate as few people as possible.  
  
He reads her letter twice by the time he makes it home. Nobody outside of the Emperor’s nearest circle knows about the tiny amount of Stone that Ling brought back, but May is unsure of how, or whether, it has been used. The Emperor’s health is still failing. If the nation’s best alkahestrists can’t do anything to heal him, it might be that the Stone itself wouldn’t be sufficient either.  
  
The last, tiny bit of power Greed left with Ling. Al doesn’t know if he’d be able to use it, doesn’t think he can. But Ling is made of different stuff, vicious and dogged and brilliant, and Greed never was one for sentimentality.  
  
As Al steps through the door, he separates out the letters. The one for Winry goes under her workshop door. The one for Ed goes on Ed’s bed in the room they share. Al gets himself a glass of water and pulls off his socks. Bare-footed, he walks through the grass into the yard, settling himself under a tree to read his other letter.   
  
Teacher is well. The shop is still in business. Dublith summers are ruthless and one of the neighborhood kids fainted from the heat the other day. Sig heroically put him in the meat freezer, then sat with him until he cooled down.  
  
Al sighs. Only Teacher would find that endearing.  
  
He leans his head against the tree and looks up through the foliage to the sky. On a day like this, he can blame his tiredness on the heat. By fall when it cools down, he knows a little walk into town won’t wear him out at all.   
  
Ed cuts the serenity of the afternoon with a triumphant crow.  
  
 _Ah_ , thinks Al. _He’s found the letter_.  
  


* * *

  
  
As summer fades into fall, the handfuls of letters Al takes into town to send grow heavier by one. Ed’s writing to the General, and by the regular responses he’s getting, the General is open to the correspondence.  
  
Something in Al uncoils at the knowledge that, perhaps, the General doesn’t hate them utterly. Somehow, Ed has managed to mend that tie.  
  
It gives Al the courage to write to him as well. He’s sent letters to most of the General’s subordinates by that point, but never one to the man himself.  
  
When he sits down with a paper in front of him, his pen stills.  
  
And then, in Amestrian, he writes. He avoids apologies or any comment that might be understood by a bystander. He does mention that his friend May is well and that her brother appears to be staying out of trouble in his new job. He writes about the way the rumors about the military have changed in Risembool, the way the terror of the sudden coup is slowly fading as life so far out east remains unchanged.   
  
He writes about his own recovery, couching it in terms of healing from a severe illness. He asks if the General is well, confesses that he’s aware the General is a busy man and hopes for his continued success.  
  
When he signs it and looks it over, he nearly tears it up.  
  
How Ed could so brazenly write to the General is, frankly, a little beyond him.  
  
But if the General is writing back to Ed, well. There must be hope for him as well.  
  


* * *

  
  
Al hasn’t stopped growing since he got his body back, but neither has Ed. Without the weight of the automail to stunt him, without sacrificing his calories to sustain Al’s body, Ed’s growth spurt is outstripping Al’s.   
  
What it means in a practical sense is that Ed’s automail leg requires frequent adjustments to keep his hips level when he walks. And as his port must be expanded to accommodate the extra width of his thigh, so must the scar tissue around the port be sliced so it can expand and heal again without pinching.  
  
Ed swears it doesn’t hurt, but he and Winry don’t permit Al into the room when it happens. Winry still maintains that Ed is at once her greatest masterpiece and her greatest responsibility. She’s the one that adjusts his leg, his port, his skin. Language like that makes it seem mechanical. Al could almost believe it, except for the way Ed goes pale under his tan, and the soft, rough groans that escape between his teeth.  
  
Sometimes, Al worries that Ed thinks he deserves a life of pain.  
  
Other times, he hears the quiet way Ed and Winry talk to one another when they’re alone. Even when his voice is thin with pain, Winry manages to make Ed laugh. He teases her about being obsessed with metal, but quiets when she tells him she needs to concentrate.   
  
Al knows that Winry loves him. He loves her, too, with all of his heart. He loves her kindness and her strength and her capable hands. He loves her even though it’s easy to make her lose her patience, and though she still pulls all-nighters even though she doesn’t have to, and though her hands always smell like metal and oil, like Ed.  
  
But the way Winry looks at Ed is different. When she thinks he isn’t looking, she watches him. Al sees it. He’s sure Ed hasn’t noticed. Ed is dense.  
  
Ed also wanted, once, to kiss the General. But if he wants to kiss Winry too, well, Al wouldn’t exactly blame him.  
  


* * *

  
  
The first response Al receives from the General is no longer than a telegram would be. It isn’t angry, for which Al is grateful. It’s confirmation that the General is well.   
  
For Ed there is a package with a notebook in it, thick with handwritten notes. Ed guards it jealously, throwing himself into translation. He’s as bad about all-nighters as Winry, now.  
  
When Al asks, Ed says it’s a lead on where he’ll search out West, when the time comes for the two of them to leave Risembool. The code is the General’s, written in Xingese.  
  
“Is that all you talk to him about?” asks Al, thinking of all of the letters Ed has sent.  
  
Ed shrugs, not looking up. “It’s all he talks to _me_ about.”  
  
It’s not an answer. Al doesn’t push.  
  


* * *

  
  
Al catches him on the phone, once. Leaned up against the wall in the early, early morning, phone tucked against his ear and his hair loose around his shoulders. Ed’s posture is relaxed. Al hears him laugh, low and soft.  
  
“ _Yes. And thank you._ ”  
  
Al turns away and tiptoes back up the stairs to their room. He watches the sun rise over the snow.  
  


* * *

  
  
In winter, Ed has a habit of walking in the cold. Al’s fairly certain it has something to do with the way packages are trickling in as Ed’s birthday nears, but Ed says it’s that activity keeps the cold from bothering his shoulder. Mainly, the bolt where his collarbone meets his shoulder, sawed off at the skin, is the last remnant from his automail arm that lays exposed to the air.   
  
Ed has a tendency, now, to wear scarves and keep his collar buttoned up tight.  
  
Ed also has a tendency toward hypocrisy, fussing over Al going out in the cold to get the mail when Al knows full well that Ed’s winter walks take him right down to town too.  
  
In his heart of hearts, Al’s pride does not win out over his desire to be warm. He’s content to sit by the fire while Ed goes out during the worst of the cold. From his seat by the stove, he can look out over the hills and watch the snow fall down in slow, gentle flurries.  
  
He can also see the gold spot on the horizon, his brother’s bright hair in the sun as he returns. At a dead sprint.  
  
Ed explodes into the house, snow trailing in behind him on his boots. He throws himself out of them and stumbles toward the phone.  
  
Al rises from his chair, heart in his throat. “Brother?”  
  
Ed sputters at the operator, asking for East HQ. His eyes are wild, his cheeks pink with cold.  
  
“Brother,” asks Al again, more softly.  
  
“Hold on,” Ed pants, holding up the hand that isn’t holding the phone. “Just. I. Just.” He frowns, and into the phone says, “Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye. It’s Ed Elric, tell her that.”  
  
Al leans against the wall next to Ed, chewing the inside of his cheek. Ed’s seething, fidgeting, tapping his fingers on the counter by the phone. Rather than soak up that tension, Al goes to shut the front door before the weather gets in any worse than it already has.  
  
Ed’s boots are soaked and caked with snow, haphazard by the door.  
  
Al hears Ed say, “Is he — yes, well, it’s in the damn’ paper!” He walks back toward the phone again to find Ed holding the phone with one hand, and gripping tightly to the base of his ponytail with the other.  
  
Ed says, “Good. Okay, yeah.” And then, “Of _course_ I did.”  
  
And then, “I understand that. I don’t have to like it.”  
  
Pressing his forehead to the wall, Ed says, “Okay. Okay. Yeah, you too.”  
  
When he hangs up, Al says, “Brother.”  
  
Ed rubs his hand over his face. “Mustang got stabbed. Assassination attempt by some anti-Ishval group. They got up under his arm but just scraped his ribs instead of making it past them.” Ed’s voice contorts with disgust. “The papers are making a big deal of it.”  
  
Al swallows against a thick tongue. “Is he okay? I mean, is he still in the hospital?”  
  
“No. They’ve moved him since he’s a target, but the information’s Need-To-Know.” Frustration writes lines over Ed’s brow, collecting at the corners of his eyes. “But nobody thought I’d be pissed to just _read_ about it.”  
  
Frowning, Al says, “They can’t just call everyone he knows when he’s hurt. They didn’t mean any harm.”  
  
Something flashes in Ed’s eyes, a fierceness Al can’t read.  
  
“Yeah, of course not,” says Ed. His voice is flat.  
  
“Brother,” says Al, more softly. “Is he okay?”  
  
“He’s fine. It’s all fine,” says Ed. He pushes away from the wall and starts shrugging out of his coat.  
  
Al watches the tension in his brother’s shoulders and thinks, _that’s not true._  
  


* * *

  
  
In truth, the General is in the hospital for twelve more days. Al knows because, on the thirteenth, he calls.  
  
Al is the one that answers the phone with, “Rockbell residence.”  
  
“Alphonse?” is the response, and Al says, “General?”  
  
He can hear the smile in the General’s voice when he says, “Yes.”  
  
Ed pokes his head around the corner, and Al can’t help it. He says, “I’m glad to hear your voice, sir. We were worried. Would you like to speak to my brother?”  
  
“Ah - yes. Thank you.”  
  
Already, Ed is close, and Al has no trouble handing over the receiver.   
  
Ed’s saying, “Mustang?” before it’s even fully to his ear.  
  
Rather than stay and listen, Al makes himself scarce. He goes and visits Winry in her workshop, because he’s getting the distinct feeling that this isn’t a conversation either of them should overhear.  
  
In the back of his mind, he worries about that. About exactly who it is that Ed loves, and who loves Ed in return.  
  
But Al trusts his brother, and it’s really none of his business.  
  
Winry’s machining the delicate inner workings of a thumb joint, her eyes obscured by layer after layer of magnifying glasses. Normally, she wears gloves to protect her hands, but this is work with a hair’s breath margin for error. Her fingertips are trained and sensitive, sure around her tools.  
  
Al is allowed to stay as long as he doesn’t breathe loudly. If he feels the urge to sneeze, he stifles it hard. The enforced stillness does a lot to calm him, forces him to focus on his body. When every breath is precious, every breath is measured, every breath is silent, Al can’t think of anything else. Nothing but his own breath and the power of Winry’s concentration and expertise.  
  
When she lifts her head and pulls the goggles off of her face, there are red rings around her eyes. Al laughs until he hiccups and she throws an oil rag at him.  
  
Ed comes in and tells him that the General apologizes if he made Al worry. Winry’s fingers tighten around her wrench. Ed’s smile is broad and beautiful.  
  
Al’s hairs raise like a lightning cloud is above them, seconds from a strike.  
  


* * *

  
  
Spring comes. And with it, Al knows he’s strong enough to travel. There are living chimera waiting for him, and the memory of Nina.  
  
He packs, following the rules Ed learned the hard way over years of traveling before. Never any more than you need. But you need extra socks and extra underwear. A good sewing kit with patches is better than an extra set of pants. Weatherproof the bag as best as possible. Take two small notebooks, in case one is lost. Keep one in the bag, the other inside your coat.  
  
Just because he can perform alchemy doesn’t mean he needs to. And just because he can do it without a circle doesn’t mean he shouldn’t take the time to write them out whenever possible. Keep a low profile.  
  
Alright, so some of the lessons he learned from Ed were on what not to do.  
  
Ed should be preparing to head West, packing alongside Al. Instead, he’s sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed, notebook in his lap. It’s the one he received from the General in winter, pages worn from being turned and touched and studied. Ed has long since translated it, coating his desk and his bed with notes. Now he can read it cover-to-cover unaided. Al has never even held it.  
  
Knowing Ed all of his life comes with certain perceptual advantages. For instance, Al can tell that Ed is pretending to be absorbed in the notebook again. His eyes linger too long on the pages, for one, and his fingers fidget with the edges. The toes of his automail foot curl in, then relax, then curl. Ed may never outgrow his tells.   
  
While he waits, Al packs.  
  
He’s going to miss this place. This room that is like home because it’s the site of so many of his new firsts. It’s the room he remembers by smell, the bed that holds the indentation of his body. But at the same time, he is thrilled to be moving forward. There is so much work to do. So much to learn.  
  
“Al, I’ve been lying to you,” says Ed.  
  
Al lifts his head.  
  
What he says is, “About what?”   
  
Ed’s mouth quirks. “You don’t sound surprised.”  
  
“You’re not very good at keeping the fact that you have a secret a secret, if that makes sense.” Al shrugs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Do I need to sit down?”  
  
Ed chews his lip.  
  
“Uh. Yeah. _Yes, I think you should._ "  
  
Al nods. He shuts the door, transmutes it into the frame, then takes a seat. He doesn’t want to risk Aunty or Winry, however well-meaning. If his brother is going to come out to him about the General, he’s prepared to be supportive and protective at the expense of his own opinions on the matter. Frankly, he thinks Ed could do better, but that’s love talking.   
  
Ed looks at him, then closes his eyes tight. “ _Do you remember how Gluttony was supposed to be like a Gate? Someone tried to apply that concept to the Truth._ ”  
  


* * *

  
  
Ed’s first kiss was most decidedly not General Mustang.  
  
If pressed, Ed wouldn’t be able to say exactly who claimed it. The mouth was Ling’s but the will may well have been Greed’s. At that point, each of them was interested. After he’d gotten over the initial surprise, so was Ed.  
  
Ed’s first kiss was most decidedly followed by innumerable others. The mouth was Ling’s with new, razor-sharp teeth. Their blades made Ed shiver and bleed, but never once was he afraid.  
  
Here, the General’s lips just barely pressing against his, his gray eyes open and unfocused and furious, Ed feels a spike of fear. It’s not fear of the General, though this is the most wrathful kiss he’s received. It’s a primal, remembered fear. A fear he learned when a hundred inky-black hands bore him through the Gate and crammed the knowledge of ages into his head for the briefest of glimpses.   
  
But the knowledge, the Xingese, it stays.  
  
And Al is grabbing him, hauling him bodily out of the General’s office, while Ed is mute with the great and terrible realization that Alphonse and the General didn’t see the Truth like he had. They couldn’t have, or they would know. Ed’s heart is thundering in his ears, his breath coming in tiny gasps, and Al is just pulling him hard out of the building and toward their hotel.  
  
At some point, Ed makes his legs work. He can’t tell Al, not yet. He hopes it’s an overreaction, but his instincts are screaming at him, his eyes wide with the memory of blinding white light.

**Author's Note:**

> The general idea for the rest = Roy is inadvertently doing human transmutation, with the same equivalent exchange as Ed used to heal himself after the whole, uh, steel support beam debacle. But I realized he was FAR too brilliant to not realize it, and Alphonse would also know quite quickly. If Roy knew, he'd never offer, and thus no smoochies. Dang it, characters, stop having brains.
> 
> Also uh super slow-build Roy/Ed with past Ed/Greedling, if that wasn't apparent? Hurk


End file.
